Purity in Death
by Sera Tedronai
Summary: Sahra Nigels is an Auror for the Ministry assigned the case of the the case of the "We are Legion" murders. Between suspicious coworkers and an ongoing investigation of the Malfoy Family, Sahra finds herself in too deep.
1. A Book of Names

"No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone..." - Marlow, Heart of Darkness  
  
*  
  
The world had changed a great deal in ten years. But the world always stayed the same, in a great many ways. There was no more Voldemort - people spoke his name, now, those who didn't fear of invoking the dead - but there would always be dark wizards. There was no question as to whether the Dark Lord was dead or not - he simply was.  
  
She had been there for the preparation, though Anara Warren had conveniently died ten years ago. It had not been her idea, of course, no one fancied the pain and pressure of going through dying. Especially when she had thought that was what really was going to happen. Perhaps if she had really died, then, it would have made things easier.  
  
Dying changes a person.  
  
Today, her name was Sahra Nigels, Her hair was darker and still straight, and her eyes did not shine as brightly as they had in her younger days. Her glasses were simple with black wire frames, as simple as her ash-grey robes. She had tied her hair back in the usual bun, but her lips were firm and thin when she looked at her reflection in the window across the room. She felt as tired as a dead person, she supposed. Too often she associated herself with that. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was looking at her grimly, and almost warily as she absently tapped her wand against her right thigh.  
  
"Miss Nigels," the man said again, and she shifted her gaze to meet his. This one would not last long, either. The position had been difficult to fill after the incident of He Who Must Not Be Named raiding the Ministry, and none stayed long. After the second war, not many politicians could stand in the same room with weathered Aurors and not be intimidated. This one had a tick in the corner of his mouth. The last one had developed a tick in the corner of his eye three weeks before resigning.  
  
He had said nothing further, and she raised an eyebrow. That was all she did. Her wand remained tapping out a stable beat against her robes, her shoulders were set, feet apart, and head tilted slightly as if she were eyeing him like her next meal. Perhaps that was what he thought he would be. She would have smiled if she found any humour in the situation. The man seemed to have gathered his thoughts enough to steeple his fingers over his desk and clear his throat. Her tapping remained unchanging. "Something's been brought to our attention." He paused, shifted his eyes a bit uncomfortably. "We need you to investigate someone." He started before she could speak. "Someone, who, I might add, has not shown any signs or motives of intending harm to anyone. It is simply..."  
  
She knew where he was going. She did not stop her tapping. "You would like me to pay a visit to someone suspected of being a Death Eater during Voldemort's second rise. Someone who has probably done nothing more then look sideways at another since then." She hated this. She hated the check- ups that Aurors were usually designated to now. There were still dark wizards out there, but few were even comparable to even the most minor Death Eaters of the past times. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been degraded to a group of baby-sitting coddlers. The man actually expected her to go knock on a door where the worst that would happen to her would be someone not offering her a cup of tea.  
  
She felt slightly ill.  
  
And she had stopped tapping. The man had leaned back in his chair, trying to act as though he were just relaxing. He was trying to edge away. Tentatively, he reached out and pushed a file of papers towards her with his fingertips, before leaning back, hands tight on the arms of his chair.  
  
She flicked it open with the tip of her wand, intentionally singing the corners of the papers with her sharp gesture. She noted the tiny flick and slight widening of his eyes. It was not difficult to not smile.  
  
Well. At least he hadn't given her something boring, like paying a visit to Macnair's son in Surrey. That boy had been scared witless at finding out his father had been in Voldemort's inner circle. It had been slightly interesting to watch the horror creep across his face, followed almost instantly by the grief at being informed that he had been killed. No one was quite sure who had killed him, still. It had been quite a messy time, and no one counted the lives they stole away. It would ruin too many of the lives of those still living.  
  
There were no pictures attached to the file. She knew who she was going to visit. She knew of them. She had never run across them, really. Perhaps she had passed by in Diagon Alley or the like in her younger years, but she did not remember. Everyone, though, remembered this family.  
  
She flicked the folder shut as quickly as she had opened it, swept it up into her hands and slid it inside her robes, and was walking toward the door by the time the man's eyes finished widening for a second time. She had thought about sending him a look over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, but she thought it better she give the man a rest. After all, it was only morning and he had to deal with at least a half dozen more like her, today. She hated the monthly visits to the people. They could stay locked away in their own little worlds, for all she wanted.  
  
Just in case she wasn't offered tea on her trip this morning, she stopped the large, long desk in the Atrium. Her timing had been about right. One of the secretaries had just sat down, a steaming cup set down beside him as he dug around his drawer for a quill. She swept it up with her left hand and strode a few feet away without a care. It would take the young man another minute to notice it was gone, and he would only sigh and go fetch another one. It was quite common for her and the other Aurors to snatch up a cup if they were paying a visit in the mornings. She wondered dimly what the budget for teacups was in the building.  
  
Apparating wasn't all that interesting. Once you did it for effortless travel, it lost any and all the flair it had before you were allowed to do it. Besides, she wasn't too keen on flying, and she did not know many Aurors who could not apparate. In fact, she doubted that anyone who couldn't Apparate would be an Auror. She gave a shake of her head at wandering thoughts as she stared up the long and dusty path, winding its way through the moors to a manor house rising up from a copse of trees. Adjusting her glasses, she hitched up her robes and began the long walk up to the front gates.  
  
They swung open with a bang as soon as she began reaching into her pocket to draw out her wand. Well, that was inviting. Haven't come across gates opening that quickly. It had occurred to her, however, that she was expected. With this family, they were told practically everything before it happened. She gave a sharp smack to a creeping vine that tried to wind about her leg when she knocked on the door. She supposed she had been the one sent because she wasn't prone to chatting, nor was she prone to be overly cruel. In fact, she considered herself chatty if she spoke more then a dozen words in a day. Well, today, she might just have to get cruel, as well.  
  
The door swung open silently just as the vine shrunk back to its proper place. She had already straightened, and tipped her head forward to peer at the man at the door above her glasses. He did not look overly pleased, but he still stepped back and swept his arm out. His voice was rich, and carried a drawl reminiscent of an Unspeakable she had worked with once who had hailed from Texas. She expected the American had a speech impediment. She was not to keen on people who did not speak well. This one, though, spoke with as much class and elegance as shown in the entrance hall. Far too much. "Do come in. I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?"  
  
She gave the tiniest shake of her head. She usually only accepted a beverage from people she was sent to check up on if they looked nervous. She did not put this one off his stride at all, so she would not accept a drink. She had more reason to worry over things like that them most Aurors.  
  
After all, most Aurors had not been held captive by a Death Eater in Voldemort's prime. "No, thank you, Mister Malfoy." She drew the folder from her robes, flipped it open and folded the cover over. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looked between him and her papers. "This house is listed under the name of your father, Mister Malfoy. I assume he is not able to attend this interview?"  
  
It was a dig. A cruel, malicious dig. The fleeting thought of ten years ago had soured her mood.  
  
She saw his eyes tighten briefly. "Your mother is listed, as well, though she has no holdings of any properties. Would you mind if I asked her to sit with us this morning?"  
  
This time it was his mouth that thinned slightly. "My mother is unable to join us today. If you'll accompany me to the drawing room, we'll finish this matter quickly." He was already walking away when he finished speaking, and she snapped the folder shut again and followed, unhurriedly. He was holding the large ebony door open for her when she arrived, a good half-minute behind him.  
  
There were quite a few tactics she used in interviews, and they were all labelled in her mind, according to the way she was greeted. If they were nervous, she would be curt, but polite, and would stay quite a while. If they were very welcoming, she would take her little shots at them, referring to those who had passed on or were otherwise detained. To the cool, unemotional kind like this, she usually incorporated both.  
  
She moved inside and seated herself behind the desk before he could get there, himself. In her younger days she would have smirked at the anger that dashed through his eyes as he closed the door and moved to sit in one of the chairs stationed infront of her. They were much lower to the ground then hers, and lent a feeling of inferiority. Judging by the information she had read of the family, Draco Malfoy had probably sat in one of those seats for a great deal of his life. And it probably irked him to no end to be sitting there again. Good.  
  
She opened the folder again and picked up a quill from the desk beside her. It was long, glossy, and black, probably coming from a raven. And by the way the man's fingers twitched in his lap, it was probably his favourite. She dipped it in the inkwell infront of her and began jotting down notes. "Have you, in the last month, purchased any artefacts from one Borgin and Burkes, or through any means not associated with the Ministry of Magic?"  
  
She watched him mull it over for a moment. She had no picture of him as a young boy in Hogwarts to compare him to, ten years older. She had often wondered what Harry Potter would look like, now. The last time she had seen him, he had been pale, worried, and tired. And far too young for what he was facing. She had been too young. Even now, at the age of thirty-four, as she looked over at the man nine years her junior, she realised the pain each and every child of that age would have gone through. The same she had gone through the first time Voldemort had risen. Far too much for anyone to experience.  
  
This one was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a robe as sleek and dark as the quill in her hand. The collar, cuffs, and hem were all woven in silver thread, and his hair was lush, white-blonde and slicked back. "I have made no purchases, Miss Nigels. Your records would have shown as such."  
  
She gave a firm nod. None had been reported. And he had been informed of her coming, as he knew her name. There were still people in the Ministry who were either funded, or worked for, previous Death Eaters. She would have to give the new Minister a stern talking-to about that. Hopefully none of the other Aurors would be put in the position of being compromised. Some would not settle at giving the man a talking-to. "Have you, in the past month, made any unscheduled trips out of the country?"  
  
"I have made none, either scheduled or non." He paused, clasped his hands together over his thighs, sending her a dark look that seemed to even dim the grey of his eyes. "Nor have I met with any of the people who you are going to list off. I visited my father once, on May third, for one hour in the afternoon. I signed in and out, and was thoroughly searched before and after." She nodded again. Unlike the others, she appreciated when people answered the questions without her having to ask them. But she had grown tired of jotting things down herself, so she drew her wand from her pocket, touched its tip to the tip of the quill, and returned her wand to her pocket. The quill continued writing as she folded her hands atop the desk and looked at him sternly above her glasses. "Do you have any plans in the future to hand your mother over to St Mungos, as has been requested by the Ministry? Or do you continue to insist that she has perfect mental capacity and is able to care for herself completely? Or do you insist that she is in good care in your house?"  
  
His voice was sharp and had lost any hint of drawl. "My mother is perfectly comfortable here, at home, with her family."  
  
"Then you will not object to St Mungos sending an in-home care person to take care of her? There are no ifs, ands, or buts, Mister Malfoy. Either you accede your care of her completely and send her to St Mungos, or you will agree to a caretaker being placed in your house, twenty four hours a day and seven days a week."  
  
She knew it hurt him. She had not spoken to her own parents in more then ten years. It was best that they, and the rest of the world, thought her as dead as everyone else did. She sometimes passed by the old house in Ireland, and was glad to see them smiling in the windows. They had grieved, and they had continued on, though they had not forgotten her. That was how it was done best.  
  
"You will give me some time to consider my options," he said cordially, pursing his lips.  
  
"I will," she agreed, "but the time allowed is only the amount of time it takes to complete this interview. Your decision must be made by the time I leave."  
  
He did not seem pleased at all. She got up, began to wander the room while she spouted off the usual questions and he answered curtly. She ran her finger over titles on the spines of books, unamused and unaffected when some made noises or moved in return. She thought he was watching her as she spoke, but she wasn't sure how. She had been looked at in every way during the course of her life. In the last ten years there had been mostly fear, anger, speculation, hate, and sadness. She had not taken many lives in her work - in fact, she had taken most before she took up the post of Auror, but she had still caused tears.  
  
Did Draco Malfoy cry when his father was taken away, and his mother was, as well? To visit his father in such a fetid place; to try and find his mother in the dark regions of her mind where she had locked herself... how difficult would that be? As difficult as living the life of a different person, because you died ten years ago? It was hard to tell.  
  
"What House were you in at school, Miss Nigels?"  
  
The question surprised her, enough to allow a book to nip her finger when the man drew her attention away. She pulled her hand back, lifted her finger, examined the small bead of blood from different angles. She considered ripping the spine of the book that caught her, but she would probably be kindly asked to leave the house if she damaged property because she was not paying attention. "I was in Ravenclaw while I attended, Mister Malfoy. You were in Slytherin. The self-proclaimed and well-known arch enemy of Harry Potter when it came to school, I believe."  
  
She had stopped looking at her finger, had not wiped off the blood. Her hand hung at her side, while her other rested on her hip, looking at him sternly. Did his face pale slightly, just then? "That's over and done with," he said shortly.  
  
"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head much like she had earlier that morning. This time, though, the man looking at her showed no fear, at all.  
  
He was getting angry, pushed himself to his feet.  
  
"Sit down, Mister Malfoy."  
  
"That was a very long time ago, Miss Nigels. I have not seen or spoken to Harry Potter since I finished school."  
  
She cleared her throat, sharpened her tone. "I said sit down, Mister Malfoy." She paused, sent a look at the quill moving fluidly across the papers. "Take note that Mister Malfoy is ignoring my request. I will ask one more time before I will choose to either terminate this interview and continue it at the Ministry, or I will use force so that I may finish this with no danger to myself."  
  
The man all but fell back into his chair, craning his neck around to stare at her. She tilted her head the other way, then moved back across the room and seated herself at the desk. She lifted the quill from the paper, where it had halted. "Off the record, Mister Malfoy, I am about as amused as you in doing this interview. In my opinion, you should all be placed under supervision until you can prove beyond a doubt that you have changed. You, however, Mister Malfoy, garner a bit more attention. Anyone who so openly disliked Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore during the war should, in my own opinion, be placed in Azkaban."  
  
"What would you know?" he said it quietly, heatedly. Almost as if he were hissing the words. His hands were white-knuckled over his knees. "You weren't there. You were living in Tokyo with your family, at the time - I do my research, as well."  
  
The man was half right. Sahra had been living in Tokyo ten years ago. She had died a year later - a New Years celebration had gotten out of hand and a Chinese Fireball had lost its temper upon a crowd. The poor, wonderful woman had died that day, though the Ministry had quickly erased that record, given the name to Anara under the sharp eye of Albus Dumbledore.  
  
She had an urge to go over there and shake the man, to tell him that she had been in deeper then him, but she had dealt with the same condescending manner before. In the first few years, a lot of the Death Eaters had said the same. She had lost it a few times, in the beginning, and had to resort to adjusting their memories. She was not overly skilled at that charm, and it left everyone feeling rather uncomfortable.  
  
"I know quite enough, Mister Malfoy. You forget I was a child when Voldemort first ran wild, before he killed the Potters. Things were different, then. Things were more dangerous. The second time, the world was aware of the threat and had some time to prepare. I don't need you telling me what I should and should not know. I do not spend all my time asking silly questions."  
  
She stopped then, flipped though some pages to one she had written herself. A jumble of notes she had put together specifically for this interview. "Ah, yes," she said, more to herself, "here it is." She peered at him through her glasses, lifted her papers, tapped them on the tabletop, and cleared her throat again. "Bole. Montague. Derrik. And... let me see... Ah, yes... Parkinson."  
  
He was looking at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, a dazed, slightly bewildered look on his thin, pale face. She licked her lips. "I seem to have lost you, Mister Malfoy. I just read off a list of acquaintances of yours."  
  
"You... did." He managed, whispering.  
  
"Do you know what they all have in common, Mister Malfoy?"  
  
He nodded, a quick, crisp bob of his head. She had unsettled him, now. "They're dead."  
  
"Half right, Mister Malfoy. Do you know what else they had in common?" he shook his head, and she let a breath spew out from parted lips. "Well, that should conclude our interview for today, Mister Malfoy. I'll be getting in touch within a few days for a follow-up. Have you made a decision concerning your mother?"  
  
She had stood and put her things away - including the man's quill - tucked inside her robes, and he still had not answered. It seemed that the question she had left him with had befuddled him. She stepped over to him, pressed a hand into his shoulder, squeezed hard, and leaned forward to place her mouth close to his ear. "Your mother, Mister Malfoy. Or I may have to list you as incompetent, and take her with me myself."  
  
That snapped him back, his head jerked and she had to pull her own away to avoid being hit in the chin. "I, ah, believe I would like a caretaker to come here." It was still barely loud enough to hear, but she acknowledged him by squeezing his shoulder again and stepping back.  
  
"Good choice, Mister Malfoy. Expect an Owl by the end of the week. I'll see myself out."  
  
"Wait," he said when she'd reached the door, placed a hand on the doorknob. It had taken him longer to ask then she expected. "What did they all have in common?"  
  
He had pulled himself together quite quickly, and it made her approve slightly. He was not a stupid man, nor one to wallow in pity or fear. For the first and only time of that day, she showed him her teeth in a quick flash of a crude grin. Inside, though, her stomach turned over. "I killed them, Mister Malfoy. I killed them when we were still allowed to use fatal force on suspected Death Eaters, when we felt threatened. When others were threatened. I haven't killed in five years, Mister Malfoy. Do not make me do it again. Reply to my owl promptly. I believe I will set up another meeting, concerning your parents and your attitude." 


	2. Murder

An interesting face appeared in her fireplace three weeks to the day that an in-home caretaker had been placed in Malfoy Manor. It as much surprised her that the same Head of the Department was staring at her, as much as it was to see the worry creasing his face. She set down her cup of tea and moved across the tiny one room that made up her lodgings, and stared down at her guest. "Good morning, Miss Nigels," the man said, a bit quickly.  
  
"Good morning," she returned, waited.  
  
He wasted no time, diving in headfirst as he appeared to be shuffling through some papers. "Your presence is required at the Malfoy Manor as quickly as you can manage, Miss Nigels. As it was by your recommendation that Mister Malfoy allowed a caretaker to watch over his mother, it is the agreement of the heads of the department that you head up this investigation. Mister Malfoy is currently detained in the Manor, awaiting your arrival."  
  
She tilted her head, ever so slightly. "Who killed the caretaker?"  
  
He tugged at the collar of his robe, sent a look to someone else probably in the room. "Well... that we are unsure of, as of yet. Narcissa Malfoy has already been ruled out as a suspect, as she has not been allowed access to a wand in seven years. The current House Elf has already been questioned, but we do not believe it is the perpetrator, either. Priori Incantatum has been preformed on Mister Malfoy's wand, as of seven o'clock this morning, and that has been ruled out, although we will be taking the wand to do further studies." He seemed to realise he was not breathing, and did so in a loud, wheezing gasp. "If you would be on your way, Miss Nigels, once you arrive you will be filled in of the details."  
  
She wasn't sure if she should sigh or if she should smile. She had been bored silly with interviews and paperwork, but dealing with the dead was not fun. Nor was it too much of a change of pace. It was her job. Whether she was hunting them down, or hunting their killer down, she was always right in the middle. Sending one last longing look at her cup of tea, she fetched her wand from beside her bed, tied her hair up into its usual bun, and Apparated.  
  
The man did not look happy at all. A young-looking member of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad was standing rather uncomfortably infront of the drawing room, and jerked himself straight when she approached. All she did as she brushed by was wave him off with a flick of her wrist, drawing the door closed behind her.  
  
Draco Malfoy was seated in the same chair he had been in three weeks ago, his elbows on his knees, and his chin rested on the gathered fist his hands had moulded into. He seemed lost in thought, thin lines creasing the skin around his eyes. She folded her arms across her chest, leaned against the door, and waited until he lifted his eyes. She could see the reaction, there, dance across his face and pass into memory. "Mister Malfoy."  
  
"Am I under arrest?"  
  
It was a simple enough question, but a thin smile slid across her face and settled on her lips. "That depends, Mister Malfoy, on what you've been up to today."  
  
"Nothing," he said quietly, then again loudly.  
  
There was a knock at the door, and Ana stepped away just in time to avoid being smacked in the back of the head when the door opened. The nervous- looking wizard was peering about the room, then staring at her, sweat beading his upper lip. "The medi-wizards have arrived, Miss, they'd like your company upstairs."  
  
She nodded, pushed the door closed on the boy's face, and turned back to the young Malfoy. "Where is your mother?"  
  
He straightened, drawn slightly from his self-pity. "They took her away. I think she's still here somewhere, but I don't know where."  
  
A Malfoy unsure of himself. It made her eyebrows jump up on her forehead before she managed to control the reaction. Perhaps he thought his mother was in danger, too. She would have to consider that. Or, perhaps, he had thought that in killing the caretaker, he would have his mother all to himself again, and this revelation stunned him. Then again, Malfoys were never known to be stupid. She would have trouble with this one. "I'll be back for you in a few minutes," she said, "and don't go anywhere."  
  
Death was never glamourous, pretty, or even peaceful. Even passing in the night from nothing but old age was not kind. Death was never kind, but death was also her business. The caretaker, a lovely young woman, approximately twenty five in age, lay sprawled on the floor of the adjoining sitting room to Narcissa's bedroom. She lay face down, face turned towards the door, looking mildly surprised. Ana instantly ruled out Avada Kedavera, even before she bent down to turn over the body.  
  
A thin trickle of blood ran from the woman's mouth, nose, eyes and ears to stain the intricate Persian carpet on the floor. It made her shake her head, even as she looked up at the small gathering of medi-wizards, who looked as baffled as her. "Check for marks on the body, check for anything she might have eaten or drank in the last twenty four hours. The house-elf should remember."  
  
She doubted there would be marks on the body. It just didn't seem the way for someone like this to go. And if Malfoy had indeed killed her, he would not leave marks. The House Elf would admit to poisoning the woman, if it indeed had, but she doubted that as well. She tugged her fingers through her hair before she remembered it was tied up in a bun, and gave a sigh, tugged it out of the knot and let it fall around her. A small shake of her head followed, and she sent a look at the small group. "What was her name?"  
  
One of the Medi-Wizards looked at her, slightly upset. "You sent the woman to work here and you didn't even know her name?"  
  
She swallowed, carefully, levelled a look at the woman infront of her, ignoring the look in her eyes. She had probably not been on the job long, or had not worked with many suspicious deaths. The others were carefully avoiding looking at either of them as they did their work. "No." She said finally, biting her tongue a moment. "No, I did not know her name. My job is to find dark wizards, not keep tabs on caretakers. Now, what was her name?"  
  
"Melissa Ashbury." It was quiet, almost too controlled, and Ana turned and walked away before the woman lost composure again. She would read the detailed analysis of the site and victim, later.  
  
She added the name to an imaginary list, checking off the woman as dead, by unknown circumstance, bleeding from the head, found in Malfoy Manor. She would do her own research, but right now, there was a man waiting downstairs for her. She stopped along the way, tagged another Medi Wizard standing outside a door, inquired as to Narcissa Malfoy's condition. "She's resting comfortably. We gave her a cup of tea and some brandy. She should be fit to question in the morning." Morning would have to do, she supposed.  
  
The manor was built more like a castle, and more of a dungeon then anything. It reminded her of the Tower of London, when she had taken a vacation there with her family when she was young. Cold, damp, and full of unpleasant memories. It made her draw her robes a little more tightly around her when there was no one around. It also made her quicken her pace back to the room where the man was waiting.  
  
His face had not changed any, but she noted that the rug beneath his boots was quite scuffed. So the man had a nervous twitch, even if he did not show it in public. She closed the door behind her again, moved across the room to pull a chair over to him, sit, and stare. He met her eyes and sat almost too still.  
  
"Your mother is upstairs, resting in her room. I will not submit her to questioning until tomorrow morning."  
  
It made him relax visibly, his shoulders slumped slightly - though he still held his head high and back straight - and he loosened his hands from the arms of his chair.  
  
"Now, I need to take you back to the Ministry. There are some questions that need to be asked and I should not do them here." She paused, cast a look at the closed door. "There should be a Portkey ready for us." She stood without waiting for him, drew her wand from her robes and waved it at him, urging him to stand. If it surprised or bothered her that he did stand, but also turned and proffered his hands, she said nothing. With his hands bound at his back, and her wand returned to her pocket, she laid a hand on his arm, guided him towards the door. She had decided long before she reached it that Draco Malfoy was not responsible for this. Wether it was the fact that he was a much smarter man then this murder, or the fact that it was simply a feeling in her gut, she did not believe he had killed Melissa Ashbury. Still, she would not tell him that. She had been wrong before, and could be now. Besides, a known Death Eater was neither innocent nor truly free. He had probably been brought into custody before, but nothing had stuck. He was a slick man, and this would slide right off him, as well. She caught a whiff of his smell as she pulled open the door, saw a flash in his eyes. Far too slick, too composed. But, was that a slight bit of worry, too? "Your mother will be taken care of here, Mister Malfoy. I will decide if I will bring her to the Ministry tomorrow, after reviewing her condition."  
  
There. There was all that cool confidence. She had been like that, once. Had believed nothing could touch her, that everything would be alright. "Nothing will be the same, Mister Malfoy. I suggest you don't smile while you're at the Ministry."  
  
The steps just outside the front door looked cool in the morning light, though she had little time to think on that. The young Enforcement member was rushing up the pathway, waving one hand wildly as he stumbled across the uneven ground. "Miss Nigels! You-you need-!"  
  
The young man did not finish his sentence. Tripping on the first step, Ana swiped what he held in his hand away before his face smacked into the hard stone. She ignored him, absently stepped back as he raised his head and shook it, before he realised blood flecked the front of his robes and the steps. Draco stared dangerously down at his spotted shoes.  
  
It was a letter. Unfolded, ready for the world to see, she looked up at the boy, noting the horror in his eyes, she observed he had obviously read it.  
  
"Oh fuck," was all she said when she finished reading.  
  
We are legion.  
  
We ask for all sins to be repented. We choose the innocent as examples, the corrupt as justice. We will be obeyed. Melissa Ashbury was an innocent. There will be others. We have no demands. We are legion.  
  
Purity will be obtained.  
  
She carefully pried her hand away from her stomach, reached out for Draco's arm, pulled him straight, held him there. He had seen the letter. There would be no other reason for hooded eyes. Swallowing, she shook the letter, shoved it roughly inside her robes, stared down at the boy infront of her. "Who delivered the letter?"  
  
He had managed to control the spurting of blood from his nose, mended it with a quick spell. His robes were not yet cleaned of blood, however, and he looked slightly pale. "I... I don't know. It was just sitting there, at the gates. I was sent to see if the Portkey had arrived, and it was just lying there. Just there... between the gates. Does this... does this mean there'll be more?" She shook her head slowly, agitated. Obviously new to the force, as he was speaking of evidence infront of the prime suspect. She realised she was chewing her lip, released it, jerked her free hand towards the gates. "Go. Wait at the gates until we arrive. Clean up your robes, and shut up. Not a word to anyone, or I'll make sure you don't have a job in the morning. Got that?" She barely waited for a nod. "Your name?"  
  
His swallow was clearly audible. "Davis, Ma'am. Philip Davis."  
  
"Good. Philip?"  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
"Hope - by Merlin - that I don't find you on the scene of any more of my cases. Now go. Run."  
  
He did run, hitching up his robes and running flat-out towards the gates. He was quickly lost in the moors, leaving her alone with Draco, to turn her hard stare to him, purse her lips. "Now. Would you prefer me to Obliviate you, or will you simply promise to speak of this to no one?"  
  
Draco Malfoy looked quite sober as his eyes drifted to where she had stuffed the letter. It made her blink when a smug look appeared on his face, as if it belonged there. He lifted his eyebrows. "What letter?"  
  
"That'll have to do," she said quietly, jerking his arm forward and descending the stairs, deliberately pulling him straight down into the small pool of blood left by the blundering officer. She did not look back at the footsteps the man left behind, but she tightened her grip on his arm just in case he slipped and pulled her along with him. Besides, a good way to vent anger was to leave finger impressions on a suspect's arm. She suspected that was what was causing the slight tightness in the man's eyes as she slowly walked him down the path to the gates of the grounds.  
  
*  
  
She returned home tired that evening, threw her files on the table and moved to the wall, infront of a picture hanging precariously on a bent nail. In the picture stood herself, and the real Sahra, posing infront of the Hogwarts express, all dressed up in their Ravenclaw robes, waving. Sahra had her arm around the smaller Ana, who was pushing her glasses up her nose with her other hand. With smiles as wide as either had ever known, they were preparing to board the train for their final year of school. The Prefect's badge glinted in the bright sunlight from Ana's robes, and Sahra's wand peeked out from her pocket.  
  
Ana traced her fingers along the simple wooden frame, pursing her lips. To be that young again, and, oh, just to smile. It made her heart break just a little bit every time she looked at it. Instead of lingering, she lifted the frame off the nail, sat on her bed, and pried the backing off. Tumbling down into her lap were papers, and a photograph. She pressed her fingers to her lips as she carefully laid them all out on her bed, pulling her legs up under her. The photograph was old, beginning to yellow at the edges. Half a dozen people stared up at her, posing dangerously, eyes glinting with determination.  
  
Gently, she poked at the tiny chest of her own reflection, and the much younger woman peered up at her. Beside, a tall, white-haired man winked, and carefully pulled back on his severe look. Quickly, though, she set the picture down, lifted a small scrap of paper that looked only moments from falling apart, it was so ripped and worn. She did not need to read the scrap to know what it said.  
  
The Prophecy is destroyed, but safe. As is the boy.  
  
Sirius is dead.  
  
That was all the note had ever said, and it still brought tears swimming their way into the back of her eyes. Again, fingers pressed into her lips, and she carefully drew in a shaky breath. She found the picture again, looked down at the grim faces. The picture had been taken soon after she had received the letter.  
  
Staring up at her was a newspaper clipping, thirteen years old, but charmed so it would never fade nor wear away. The face was gaunt, dirty, and a slight manic look danced in the man's eyes.  
  
"Oh, Sirius," she managed, before hurriedly gathering up the paraphanelia and carefully putting the picture frame back together. She had been known as Anara Warren in those times, reporter for the Daily Prophet, member of the Order of the Phoenix, recruited just after Voldemort's second rise.  
  
She had met Sirius, however, nearly three years before her recruitment, in a small resort in Trinidad, just after the man had first escaped from Azkaban.  
  
And had died not long after him. She had gone in a blaze of glory, she liked to think, having lured a half dozen Death Eaters into the Daily Prophet, barring the exits, and burning the building to the ground. Two had been dead before the fire licked at the hem of their robes, consuming them, and she had had to crawl to the Portkey set up for her escape.  
  
She had not left in one manageable piece, but she had been determined to follow the plan through to the end. Spending four months in St Mungo's - under the name of Sahra Nigels (As Sahra had suffered her attack at around the same time), she had slowly recovered from severe burns and the various curses laid upon her. And once she had recovered, she took on the tests to become an Auror and joined the Ministry under her assumed name.  
  
And had been hunting and killing ever since. 


	3. A Dream and a Revelation

It came as quite the surprise when he pushed her back against the wall, hands pressing almost painfully into her shoulders. His breath came thinly, low and seedy, as his knees knocked against hers and she blinked at him. "Was there something wrong, Mister Malfoy?" She would not rise to meet him, she could endure the anger, his punishment. Her hand was already creeping towards her pocket, wherein she had stored her wand.  
  
Instead of answering, he released one of her shoulders, and she began to step away from the wall, shaking her head, a 'tsk' forming on her tongue. It quickly became a pant as he grasped the wrist slipping towards her wand, drew it up and pressed it against the wall, pushing her back so she knocked against the wall.  
  
She quickly realised that it was not anger painted on his face. It made her turn her own away, press her cheek against the cool stone. It made her close her eyes and draw in a deep, calming breath as his own swept across her cheek.  
  
"Nothing," came his reply, the words slipping directly into her ear; the warmth spreading down her neck only a hint. She tilted her head back, away, ignored the knee pressing its way between her own, licked her lips. A small voice danced through her mind. How many years has it been, Ana? Being dead doesn't kill needs, does it? She gave the tiniest shake of her head in answer. We're both dead now. Only, I expect the only desire Sirius has is to be alive again. ... Who is this boy, anyway? A young man, wanting what he can't have, with his money, his pointed face, his cold, hard eyes. Do you have any intention of waging a battle this large again?  
  
The argument itself died as something soft and smooth played across her chin.  
  
She awoke slowly, drawn out of sleep by the slight movement across her chin and cheek, rubbed at it lazily. And realised it was not lips, but paper. Blinking the sleep away, she drew herself from her bed and stared blearily down at the articles, papers and photographs on her bed.  
  
And she frowned down at the paper flapping in the slight breeze caused by her open window. It was not an article - the world was not aware... To the world, The Boy Who Lived was still alive, off away from the world, living his life quietly.  
  
In her reporter's mind, Ana referred to him as The Boy Who Died. Still analytical to a fault, those were the first words that had come to her mind when she received the letter a little more then seven years ago. Voldemort had been destroyed, and along with him Harry Potter. Many who knew the prophecy had discerned that it was inevitable, but too many of them were close to the boy, loved him as if they were surrogate parents. Perhaps they all were. She had only met him in passing. She had only known him as the boy who would save them all from the Dark Lord, and that he had. That he had to die had been a great shock to those who knew him, but what had happened had happened.  
  
She had not yet been an Auror a year when it occurred. She had not participated in the final pitched battle between good an evil, though she had been in her own. The Aurors had been set off throughout the British Isles to put down the resistance from the Death Eaters. She had been in Surrey with five others (and another four already dead) when the Death Eaters had screamed in unison, lifting their arms to the sky, pawing and scratching at them. All who had been present that day - in Surrey and elsewhere - had witnessed the slow and silent fading of the Dark Marks upon the arms, and all had known what had come to pass.  
  
The world did not celebrate. There were too many pieces to pick up, too many lives to mend and put back together. The world mourned for the dead, consoled the living. Ana had not seen smiles for some time afterward, though those had been only grim in the beginning.  
  
It had taken many years to put the world back together, but it had been done and lives had gone on. There was little more to do.  
  
What became of Harry Potter and Voldemort she never knew. If there were remains to be dealt with, the world never heard a word of where they were placed, what was done with them.  
  
Somehow, it was better that way. The world went on, knowing it was over, though no place had been left tainted by the final battle. The world did not know where it happened, did not want to know. It was over, and the world went back to their peace and solitude, knowing that this war was over, and knowing that another would begin in the future. That was the way the world worked.  
  
She had gone back to work the early next day, sat down at her desk, put her head in her hands, and cried until the first person arrived. She cried for the boy, for Sirius, for the lives changed. For herself. It had been the first time she finally realised that she was dead, as dead as the rest of them... but she had been given a second chance. Life had not seen fit to give anyone else another chance. She grieved that morning for all lost chances.  
  
She pulled herself off the bed and to her feet, leaving the things scattered across the bedspread, pulled open the drawer of her night stand and drew out the single quill sitting in the drawer.  
  
Moving to the wall beside the window, she tapped the tip to her lower lip, considering. When she had chosen a place between the scrawled phrases "We all remember." and "Who is to say what we know?", she pressed the quill to the white wall and wrote, "I miss living life." It shimmered a moment in the morning sun, then sunk into the wall, fading from black to a red that had obviously once been vibrant.  
  
Placing the quill on the windowsill, Ana lifted her hand, turned it over, stared at the line seared into her palm. Carefully, she dabbed at a spot of blood with the sleeve of her robe, swept up the quill, and turned away from the window.  
  
The dream stayed with her, but she thought little of it. She could not think on it, or it would compromise her day and her case. And by the sound of the letter that had been found, there would be little personal time on the horizon.  
  
"Since when have I had personal time?" She muttered as she gathered up the papers and photographs and began slipping them back into the picture frame.  
  
"Personal time?" Echoed a voice from across the room.  
  
She frowned at the voice, but continued putting the frame back together. When she had placed it back on the wall, she turned and looked hard at the man in her doorway. There was more then a little worry in her eyes. "I haven't seen you in almost ten years."  
  
The man merely shrugged. His hair had gone completely grey, his face lined far beyond his years. His hands were stuffed tightly into the pockets of the long coat he wore.  
  
"What's happened?"  
  
She tried not to sound hopeful, and succeeded, but there was a tingle there, in the pit of her stomach. What for, she was not sure, but as she stepped towards him, she placed a hand over her chest.  
  
"We've heard news of the letter found at the Malfoy Mansion yesterday."  
  
She blinked. "We?" It took a moment for her to settle, though her hand twitched, attempting to ball itself up over her chest. "There's still a 'we'? I left the Order the day I died, Remus. This is business for the Ministry. Voldemort is long dead, and the Order shouldn't exist anymore. This has nothing to do with Death Eaters."  
  
He raised an eyebrow as he draped a hand across the back of the single kitchen chair. "Doesn't it? Purity, killing people involved with the Malfoys, when they did not want involvement? 'We are Legion'?"  
  
She shook her head, moved to hang the picture back on the bent nail. She did not want to think that they were back. "They can't be, Remus. We would know, there would be signs."  
  
"This isn't a sign?"  
  
"This is murder." She said it simply, turned to look at him with her hands on her hips. "Lucius Malfoy probably got word of his wife being coddled and his son watched and called in a favour. It would be just like him to sent the Ministry into a mad dash to find some group of nonexistent killers."  
  
"Just like him," the man said quietly, removing his other hand from his pocket, gripping the chair with both. "You've never met the man, Anara. Perhaps that is something you should do."  
  
She sneered at him. "I've an interview set up for two o'clock today, Remus. I will be visiting Narcissa tonight at St Mungo's, and will be spending the rest of the day interviewing the young Malfoy while he sits in a cell in the basement of the Ministry. I think I've got enough covered for today."  
  
She caught the worry tightening his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching around the chair. "None of us have heard from you since before the Prophet incident. Even Dumbledore hasn't seen you since then. Some of the Aurors don't even remember you. Do you have any idea how different you look?"  
  
She bit her lip, sent a look into the mirror that sat off-center on her wall. "I know how I look. I look old, and I look tired." She paused, lifted her head. "Don't expect some crack about how I look good for a person who's dead, Remus. I lost my sense of humour along with a great deal of flesh and bone." Again, she waited another beat while she looked at him. "They regrew or repaired eighty-seven bones, Remus. Regrew the thirty-four percent of the skin I lost in the fire. One of my shoulders gets so stiff some mornings that I can't move it for hours. Sometimes I still smell burnt hair and skin. They left so many scars on me that I can barely look at myself, some days. My face might look alright to you, but I can barely smile. That happens when a curse shatters your jaw."  
  
She wasn't done, lifted a finger after he next breath. "Two. That's how many teeth they didn't have to regrow. Seven of my fingers were broken, three so badly that they had to remove what was left and start all over. They did the same with my right leg and left wrist. There's so little left of me that is... me... that I don't dare call myself alive anymore. I lived, but Sirius, Sahra, and Harry Potter all died. So many other people died. So someone decided I got the chance to live, and Dumbledore gave me Sahra's name, her life. I stole away the life of my best friend, because she died. Ana died. If both Ana and Sahra are dead, then so am I."  
  
He was going to say something, she knew he was, but she didn't want to hear it. So she moved to the kitchen table and swept up her folders. "They're expecting me at the Ministry. I want to get some time in with young Mister Malfoy before I go visit his father."  
  
He was speaking when she swept up a handful of Floo Powder from the jar on the hearth, but she ignored it. Sprinkling a touch in, she requested the Atrium, and stepped into the fire. The last she saw of the man, he was stuffing his hands back into his pockets and sending a look in her direction as he turned towards the door.  
  
It was thankfully still early, and the Atrium was nearly empty as she trudged towards the elevators. She caught one to herself, and rode down in silence.  
  
Her cubicle sat at the end of the first row, just beside one of the magical windows. This morning, the sun was slowly rising, casting the large open room in a pinkish light. She set her things down on her tidy desk, lifted her memos and notes, and flicked through them without sitting. Three were from various people at the Ministry accosting her about locking a Malfoy in the basement. She dropped those straight into her wastebasket, along with the others, which were just normal notes and reminders.  
  
On her way down the many floors to the basement, she listened in on the early-morning conversation between Ministry workers as they chatted about their evening, how the wife and children were. She was alone when she got off the elevator on the tenth level. It was a long walk along the corridors to the small rooms used for holding people.  
  
All were empty, save for the one holding Draco Malfoy. Ana waved to the guard outside the door and he opened it, allowing her to step inside. When the door banged shut with a hollow, metallic sound, Draco lifted his head from where he was lounging on the small bed provided. "Well. Good morning, Miss Nigels."  
  
"Good morning," she replied, seating herself on the only chair in the small room, which sat directly across from the bed. The man still laid there, hands beneath his head, one foot balanced atop the other as he looked at her. After adjusting her robes, she swept out her wand. "Tea? I'm not sure if they'll have fed you yet."  
  
There was a low sound that escaped from his nose. She instantly stiffened, eyes narrowing. "I've eaten. But I will accept the tea, thank you." With that, he quickly sat up, folding his hands across his lap as he leaned forward attentively.  
  
"Of course they fed you," she muttered, but still, she conjured up two cups of tea, and he swept his own from the air, took a contemplative sip.  
  
"Mint," he said, considering. "It suits you. Crisp, cool, but with a hint of sweet. It symbolises virtue. Humble virtue. Also," he dipped his head towards her, smirked, "it symbolises passion and sexuality."  
  
She sniffed in return, took a sip almost in defiance. Her dream crept back into her mind, caused her back to stiffen even more so. As she bent down to set the teacup on the floor - as there was no table - she very nearly slopped the tea when he touched her hair. She stood instantly, staring down at him with a look she could only muster when she was furious.  
  
He spread his hands, looking as innocent as he could. "I apologise. It was in my tea."  
  
She frowned, lifted a strand and very nearly shook her head. It was wet, and when she bought it to her nose, noted it did smell like it had been resting in a cup of mint tea. With a disgusted sigh, she sank back into the chair. "Would you like another cup, Mister Malfoy?"  
  
He shook his head. "No, this is quite alright. I doubt I will find any hairs in my cup as yours is so long."  
  
She barely suppressed another sniff. Her hair had been something she was proud of, in her younger years. She had cared for it, washed it, made sure that it did not hang as limply as others did. She had been left with a short, fuzzy cap of hair after she had burned down the Daily Prophet, and it had taken these near ten years just to grow it all back. Absently, she twirled her fingers around it, until she realised the man was sitting, watching her muse over old thoughts while she was supposed to be interviewing him.  
  
"You didn't sleep well, did you?"  
  
It was such an odd question coming from him, that it caught her off guard and she nodded. Then decided that as she had already answered, she would continue. "You don't look as though you had a comfortable night either, Mister Malfoy. I suggest we start this discussion then, so we can let you go back home."  
  
"Let me go back home?" It was his turn to blink, and he leaned forward to set his own cup down. Ana had forgotten about hers. "You don't think I did this, then?"  
  
This was not going well, she decided. Not well at all. "No," she said, resigned, "I don't think you did it. You're too smart a man to kill someone in your own house. However, it will probably be a few days before we can rule you out as a suspect."  
  
She had just drawn out a quill and a notepad when there was a knock on the door. It sounded oddly distant through the thick metal. The guard slid the door open and the head of her Department was looking between her and Draco with a crease between his eyes. "We've just received Miss Ashbury's journal, Sahra. You should look it over before you go to Azkaban."  
  
She could have hit the man for his stupidity. Draco had his eyebrows raised, and he was looking between them with interest and scrutiny. Ana carefully smoothed the paper she had crumpled in her first. "I'll come up when I'm finished. Sir."  
  
The man frowned at her. He had obviously charmed himself some backbone, or had been the recipient of a talking-to by the Minister and was planning on taking it out on her. Either way, she was going to spend as much time down in the dungeon and not with the man, if she could manage. She did not have to be at Azkaban until two o'clock, and by a quick check of her watch, it was only ten past nine.  
  
"I believe Miss Nigels should get herself some breakfast, sir. She can peruse the journal, then come back and interview me." Both of them turned to peer at Draco, and he lifted his teacup in a salute before taking another sip and leaning back on the bed. "I'd like to enjoy my morning tea before I have to answer some questions. She could also use a nap. I won't be ready for her until noon, I expect."  
  
The two turned to stare at each other, the man shaking his head in amused disbelief, and Ana feeling the red rise up past her neck to flush her cheeks. She did not bother to uncrumple her paper this time, instead she stood and stomped hard on the quill she had let slip through her fingers. Sending a hard look at Draco, and brushing by the Head with a look of utter disgust on her face, she began making her way back towards the elevators.  
  
"Really, Miss Nigels," the man hurried up beside her, smoothing the front of his robes.  
  
"Really?" she snorted in return, tossing the empty notepad behind her as she strode quickly down the hall. "Really yourself, Whitney. Walking in on an interview to divulge information concerning the case when a suspect is present!"  
  
"Come on now, Sahra," the man started, a pleading sound rising in his voice, "you can't believe Mister Malfoy did this. I mean, a Malfoy committing murder..."  
  
She stopped right there, in the middle of the hall, struck dumb by the man. Her throat dried, fingers fell loose around the wand in her pocket. She stopped her eyes from rolling around in her head only after she took a few moments to recover. Then, her voice was as thin and dangerous as cold steel. "Mister Whitney... You can't... you're not...?"  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"Oh dear." That was all she could manage. She could not bring herself to find any other words. She swallowed a very large lump in her throat and continued down the hallway at a near run, leaving the man far behind her.  
  
Upstairs, she very nearly slammed into someone as she escaped the elevator. The person grabbed her to keep her from tripping, and Ana blinked up at Arthur Weasley. She very nearly screamed.  
  
"Miss Nigels!" The man started, worry creasing his face. "You look as if someone just walked over your grave! Is something the matter?"  
  
Still nearly frantic, Ana gripped his hands, pulled him down the corridor a ways, peered about, and leaned forward. "Arthur!"  
  
He blinked at her. "Yes?"  
  
She gave a sharp shake of her head. "Arthur, tell the Order, tell Remus... Whitney was either a Death Eater or was funded by one! He may still be!"  
  
Looking quite utterly perplexed, he blinked again. "Order? Remus? I've no idea what you're talking about, dear... perhaps you need to sit down."  
  
"Arthur!" She very nearly slapped him, but instead gripped his shoulders and shook him hard. "Look at me. Look hard. Sahra Nigels died ten years ago, in Tokyo." She had completely confused him, she knew. "I don't understand," he said quietly.  
  
Behind her, the elevator dinged open and Whitney stepped out. Ana swallowed and shook him again. "Just tell Remus what I said, Arthur. He'll explain. Stay away from Whitney. Please."  
  
"A-alright," the man managed before she pushed him away and hurried back to her cubicle.  
  
Melissa's journal was sitting on her desk, but she ignored it as she paced the small space between it and the window. Whitney passed by on the way to his office, and Ana sent him a dangerous look. The man had the audacity to look nonplussed, and she growled loudly, causing the Auror next to her to lean out of his cubicle and blink at her. "Case got you frustrated, Sahra?"  
  
"Somewhat," she replied and thumped down into her chair and flipped open the journal. It was long winded, and after reading the first few entries, she skipped forward to the date she had been assigned to the Malfoy Mansion. 


	4. Journals and Visits

June 2nd,  
  
They've sent me to work for the Malfoys. I'm very excited to be able to do this, but I'm also a little afraid. There were always those stories of the Malfoys being Death Eaters. The hospital assures me that there's an Auror keeping track of the family and that I'm in good hands, so I'm not too worried. They sent me the little casework there is on Narcissa Malfoy. It looks like I'll have to do my own evaluation once I get there. Draco Malfoy Doesn't seem to trust the hospital to take care of his mother. I'll show him how good we are, though.  
  
Ana closed the book carefully, pressed her hands into it and drew in a deep breath, letting it linger before she blew it out. Melissa had trusted her to keep her safe. "Bloody hell," she murmured before flipping open the book and turning to the next page.  
  
June 4th,  
  
Narcissa is a wonderful woman. She's always quite confused and needs leading around a lot of the time. I worked with someone who had been administered the Dementor's Kiss, once. Narcissa reminds me of that, only a lot less lost. She keeps talking about her son, how good he's doing in school and how busy her husband has been at the Ministry. I'm afraid she's locked herself away in time. I've seen too many people do that, and it gets pretty painful after a while. She seems happy enough, though. She delights in talking to me and has been saying how we should make afternoon tea a daily event.  
  
"Too bad little Draco's too busy with his schoolwork to join us," she said today, and it made me sad. The way he looks at his mother is so... it makes him look like the little boy she still thinks he is. I don't see how they could be Death Eaters. He really loves his mother.  
  
June 7th,  
  
Draco has been very helpful. At first I thought he would just leave me alone to do my work since he was very unhappy about my coming, but he's joined us for tea once already and has stopped by to read a book to Narcissa. It seems that he comes and reads part of that book to her every day. I haven't caught the title of it yet, because he brings it with him and leaves with it. Perhaps I'll ask Narcissa what it is that he reads to her.  
  
Jun 11th,  
  
Narcissa woke up screaming last night. She was wailing something about her husband, crying out and asking where he was. It took both me and Draco to subdue her. He appeared only a moment after I got to Narcissa's bedside and whispered to her and held her hand while I prepared some tea with some herbs that would help her sleep.  
  
Afterward, I sat down with Draco and he told me a little bit about his mother. She married Lucius when she was eighteen, straight out of school. He had been a lot older. She had loved him, though, and he did love her. He seemed to find himself a little surprised to say that, but insisted that she was a wonderful woman and a very kind mother. I believe him. The way she keeps talking about him, she loved him very much. I think she still does. I think she knows it's him, sometimes.  
  
June 15th,  
  
Narcissa had a bad day today. She had nightmares again last night, but Draco wasn't home. It took me an hour to get her calmed down, and she only did then because she'd exhausted herself. It's very distressing. She was screaming again, screaming about Dementors and You Know Who. He apparently killed a cousin of hers who she liked very much. That was what I understood from her crying. Poor woman. She must have had a tough life. She kept asking where Draco was, and I ended up telling her he was away at school. Trying to explain anything else just confused her.  
  
I told Draco when he got home what happened. He seemed very worried, but when I said she was asleep again, he went to bed. When she woke up this morning, I think she remembered some of her nightmares because she didn't eat breakfast. She didn't even take tea this morning, so I ended up having to force some down in the early afternoon.  
  
Draco took the two of us on a walk through the mansion and the grounds today. The flowers were blooming, and they were all very pretty. Narcissa stopped at a small patch, which Draco told me were the flowers she was named for. They're a very peculiar plant. He seems to know a lot about them.  
  
"That he does," she muttered, turning the page.  
  
June 21st,  
  
I've been busy with Narcissa. We seem to be becoming good friends. She smiles now when I come in the morning and knows my name. She likes to chat with me about when she was a girl. Apparently, she lived in a house in London with her two sisters. She didn't get along with one of them, Draco says. She Doesn't talk about her except to tattle on her or tell her off when she's lost in her memories. She married a Muggle, apparently, and the Malfoys and Narcissa's family had all been pure bloods. I don't like that subject, so I didn't talk to Draco about it further. He Doesn't seem to keen on his mother's side of the family either.  
  
June 22nd,  
  
Narcissa and I took another walk through the garden and she pointed out all the different flower beds and told me about them. It seemed to relax her greatly. I think if the nice weather keeps up, we'll try and spend most of the day outside. She really enjoyed the teat in the gazebo today, just her and I. She was quite lucid, too. She asked me how I liked my job and said that she must be quite a bother to take care of. I told her of course not, that she's a very nice woman. She smiled and offered me a tart.  
  
Draco joined us for dinner tonight. The House Elf had prepared roast mutton for us. It was very good, and we chatted over dinner about the garden again. Draco said that he has a small patch in the garden that he likes to tend. He said he'd show it to me tomorrow. He's a very handsome man when he's not looking so smug over things. I did hear all the stories about how he and Harry Potter were enemies in school, though. My mom and dad we great supporters of Dumbledore, so I better keep this job strictly business. They'd be very upset with me if I associated with an enemy of Harry Potter. I put Narcissa to bed about an hour ago and am about to go off to bed as soon as I read the paper.  
  
As Ana closed the book on the last entry, she shook her head slowly. She now doubted interviewing Narcissa would garner anything but a traumatic experience for the woman, but she still had to. Draco Malfoy tended a garden. How many murderers had she known that loved their mothers so much that they took the time to care for them, read to them, and who loved to tend a garden?  
  
Drawing up a new notepad with her wand, she dipped a quill in an inkpot and scribbled down a note:  
  
Find out about: The book Draco reads his mother. Cousin and sisters. What flowers are in Malfoy's garden? Where was he on the evenings of June 4th and 15th. Was he planning on having a relationship with Melissa?  
  
Peering at her watch, she noted the time was just after ten, so she supposed she could get a bit of a nap in. The man would be able to tell if she hadn't slept, and she wanted him agreeable if she was going to ask him personal questions. Apparating home to catch some sleep was pointless, so she pushed her things to the side of her desk and layed her head down. She did not close her eyes, however. After a moment, she stood and peered over the cubicle wall at the Auror beside her. "Gallagher?"  
  
He lifted his head from jotting down notes. "Something I can do for you, love?"  
  
She ignored his smirk and tapped her fingers along the top of the wall. "I'll be taking a quick nap. If Whitney leaves his office, could you poke me awake?"  
  
"Do I get to poke you wherever I want?" He was grinning now, a wide smirk that had her own lips tugging in an attempt to widen. Gallagher was a good man, handsome, brave, and smart, but also married with two children.  
  
She nodded. "Wherever you want. But I'm not responsible for jamming my wand down your throat if I don't like where you put your fingers."  
  
"Gotcha," he chuckled and returned to his notes.  
  
She returned to leaning over her desk, head cradled in her arms and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly enough, drawing her into more dreams.  
  
She was running down the corridor in the basement, Whitney behind her, wielding a sword with the Dark Mark seared into the blade. Arthur Weasley was running beside her, and he kept shouting "You're dead! You're dead!" Infront of her, Draco Malfoy sat in his garden, tending the small patch covered entirely in the Narcissa flower. A gravestone stood in the middle of the flowerbed and proclaimed that Narcissa Malfoy had been a very good woman and a loving mother. He turned around and held up a cup of tea. "Mint!" he called. "Come and drink with me!" It was when she realised she was naked that she woke up.  
  
Her watch stated that it was ten minutes to noon, and she shook the last of sleep away. It had been a very short dream to her, that should have only lasted mere moments. She felt more tired then before when she made her way to the elevators and back down to the tenth level.  
  
He was waiting for her, still lounging on the bed, both teacups empty and sitting by the door, little handles pointing in exactly the same angle as the other. She frowned at them as the door closed behind her.  
  
"You didn't eat, did you?" he said right away, sitting up.  
  
"I was busy trying to clear you of murder," she answered sharply. He tilted his head as he looked at her, then once again folded his hands and waited. "I read Melissa's journal. It seems that you took good care of her."  
  
"I do take good care of her. Which is why she should be sent home once I am."  
  
This made her sigh, rubbing a knee through her robes. "I'm afraid that we can't, Mister Malfoy. Your mother will have to stay in St Mungo's until we find out who the killer is. She may well have been the intended target. Or perhaps you were. Your mother is in no condition to take care of herself."  
  
"You haven't even seen her yet." It was quiet, spiteful.  
  
And she understood. And said so. "I really do understand, Mister Malfoy. I haven't met with her, but Melissa's journal talked a great deal about both of you. From what she's said, I doubt your mother was capable of this. There was no trauma to Melissa's body, and Narcissa had no access to a wand."  
  
She stopped, blinked. Draco took the two of us on a walk through the mansion and the grounds today. The flowers were blooming, and they were all very pretty. Narcissa stopped at a small patch, which Draco told me were the flowers she was named for. They're a very peculiar plant. He seems to know a lot about them. "What are the properties of the flower your mother was named after?"  
  
He peered at her a moment before he leaned back against the cool stone wall and considered her. "Why?"  
  
"What are they?" she insisted.  
  
"They can cause headaches. The name Narcissus means 'to numb' in Greek. It also signifies that summer is leaving and winter is coming."  
  
She thought for a moment. "So it could also be a symbol for death?"  
  
He frowned. "If you think about it that way, it could."  
  
"Could it possibly cause the brain to bleed if one smells it too much?"  
  
He seemed to understand, then. "Oh. Oh, no. The Narcissus flower didn't kill her. We don't keep any in the house. They only cause headaches if you're in a small space with them. Outside, she wouldn't have gotten more then a bit of a headache. There are no flowers in our garden that would have done that to her. I pulled up all the poisonous plants years ago when my mother... I didn't want her getting her hands on anything that could hurt her."  
  
She nodded. She would press the situation again later, but she added that to her list. Perhaps Narcissa did do something. She would have to know about flowers too, and perhaps a mixture of some different kinds would cause the symptoms that killed Melissa. Whatever symptoms there were. There was still no word on how she died, besides a probable swelling of the brain to the point of haemorrhaging. Still, perhaps Draco did do something.  
  
"You really should eat, you know."  
  
She started, lifting her glasses to rub at her eyes. "What book do you read your mother before she goes to sleep?"  
  
The question seemed to take him aback, and she gave a mental nod, and waited. "Book? A, ah, collection of plays by the french playwright Malecrit."  
  
"Mm," she replied. "He wrote that play about transfiguring feet, right?"  
  
"That is one of his more popular, yes. They amuse my mother."  
  
"You're a very dutiful son, Draco Malfoy. Does the same stand with your relationship to your father?" He frowned at her, then stretched lazily. "What about my father? Perhaps you should go get something to eat before you pay a visit? I assume you've been there before, so I doubt you need to go on am empty stomach. You do look a bit peaked, though."  
  
She sniffed. "That's very kind of you, Mister Malfoy, but I believe I am the one conducting the interview..."  
  
"You are," he interjected, raising a finger, "but as I don't have a representative, I get to choose when you will see me. I believe I'd like some rest, so we're done for now."  
  
It was raining outside, hard, fat droplets that soaked her through in moments. The water was warm, seeping through her robes and sliding down her back, so she ignored it and continued to walk down Diagon Alley. The street itself had not changed much in ten years, though here and there different shops lined the street, and always different people wandered. She stopped infront of the Daily Prophet building, stared up at the sign as it swung in the wind, allowing the water to run along her glasses. They had rebuilt the building soon after, calling it an unlucky accident caused by a misfired spell.  
  
She clucked her tongue, but no one noticed in the rain. She had been spot- on with her spells. Unfortunately, so had the others. Absently rubbing her shoulder, she turned away from the building and checked her watch. One thirty. She was expected at Azkaban in half an hour. With a sniff she stepped into the Leaky Cauldron and ordered a bowl of soup. She had no appetite, but if she did go into the prison with no food in her and little energy, she might find herself in a spot of trouble. The Dementors had returned to guarding the prison, though their numbers were greatly decreased. Only two guarded each entrance and exit, and none wandered the inside of Azkaban. Those people who worked inside the prison were paid quite well, though they usually left it all to their families to spend. Chocolate was eaten at fifteen minute intervals by the guards, and was given to the prisoners with each meal.  
  
The most feared prison in all the world had been degraded to a building which served its captives chocolate. She norted into her soup when it was served, but finished it with fiteen minutes to spare.  
  
Until she had become an Auror, she, like everyone else, had not known where Azkaban was. She thought that if she had known before the Dementors sided with Voldemort, that she would have trip to live as far away from it as possible. She had stopped caring about Dementors swooping down on her in the night when she died. She had stopped caring about a lot of things, then.  
  
She managed nothing more then a frown and a stiffening when she passed the Dementors at the door. Her first time seeing one, she had collapsed into a crumpled heap on the ground and wailed for three hours, dispite the chocolate others fed to her. She would have nightmares tonight. Such nightmares that she had already begun considering the little vial of purple liquid she kept in her nightstand for times she met with Dementors. She rbushed the thought off as she approached the first of many barred passages, eyed the guard on the other side of the door. "Sahra Nigels to interview Lucius Malfoy at two o'clock."  
  
The guard, a greying man, licked his upper lip as he scanned a clipboard in his hands. "Yes yes. There we are. I do hate seeing all you people come and go so often. Must be a tough life, doing what you do."  
  
She had nothing to say to the man in response when he opened the door. Working in Azkaban with Dementors would be her own personal hell. And the man thought her life was difficult? She shook her head in wry amusement as she continued through barred doors and past guards.  
  
There was a stool sitting for her at the end of one hallway, straight across from one of the cells. She settled herself comfortably on it before she peered at the man inside. His cell was slightly decorated, a few pictures hanging haphazardly on the walls, good cotton sheets on his bed, and a small desk placed inside the cramped room. Quills, ink, and papers sat meticulously placed ontop. He had been waiting for her, sitting on a chair and facing the bars, one knee crossed over the other and hands folded neatly ontop. He even had a ribbon tying his hair back. "Early. I like that."  
  
"And I like my murder suspects ready to answer questions, Mister Malfoy. I hope to skip the formalities and jump straight into the reason I'm here."  
  
He looked unconcerned as a finger roamed along his knee to flick off a speck of lint. "And what would that reason be? Does the Ministry have you people wasting your time on people like me?"  
  
Her voice was low and almost as dark as her narrowed eyes. "The Ministry always has time for people like you, Mister Malfoy. You really can't waste time on monsters such as yourself."  
  
He raised his eyebrows, though nothing else changed on his lined face. The years here had been hard on him, she knew, but he would never admit it. A Malfoy would always be a king, wether he was perched on a throne or locked away in a cell. "Really? I haven't been called a monster in years. May I inquire as to the reason?"  
  
She enjoyed telling him. Her lips split in a grim smile when she spoke. "The woman who was caring for your wife - the woman St Mungos appointed to take care of your incompetent wife - was killed. Your son is sitting in a cell at the Ministry while we conduct our investigation."  
  
She heard his hiss even before she was finished. He was half out of his seat before he regained his composure, and carefully sat down, making sure to arrange himself in the same position he had been in moments before. His face was slightly flushed when he spoke in a reedy voice. "My wife is not incompetent. My son, sitting in a cell. By Merlin, you people know no bounds."  
  
She chortled, a loud, abrupt sound that made him jerk. "We know no bounds? My dear, dear Mister Malfoy. I could tell you stories about you and your Death Eaters that would make you cringe. Yes, even you. The things you did in the shadows, in the night... You people crossed a line the moment that mark was seared into your arm. You stepped over a boundary and you can never go back. You're all still marked, and the mark still signifies death. It is my job to hunt each and every one of you down like animals and kill you like one. No, I know no bounds. None but the laws I must follow. But believe me, Mister Malfoy, I have done my research and I know exactly what I can and cannot do in any given situation. It may surprise you the reasons we Aurors are allowed to kill - or even use an Unforgivable curse, still." She paused, tilted her head forward and sent him as dark a look as she could muster. "Why, if you were to finish uttering that comment, I would be legally inclined to use the Cruciatus Curse."  
  
His mouth stopped moving that instant and his head shot up, dark eyes flaring as he started at her. He was literally shaking with rage, and she suppressed a smile. "Tell me, Mister Malfoy, who it is you have been sending letters to and visiting with over the past month. I want the dates and times, and names. And if they do not coincide with the records at the front desk, I'm afraid I will have to inform the guards that you are becoming somewhat plump and that I do not think you should be receiving chocolate with your meals any more."  
  
By the end of their meeting, the man had given her the proper information that matched exactly with what the front desk had compiled. She was not feeling particularly cruel so she did not remove chocolate from his menu, but she left the threat standing between them when she left, with a promise that she would be back. And soon.  
  
It was just before four o'clock when she returned to the Ministry, and she really had no desire to pay a visit to the hospital. The moment she stepped inside, one of those magical alerts would go off and the doctor that knew of her previous condition would descend upon her and demand a checkup. She was counting the days until that old man retired, and she could be left alone when she entered the hospital. At her desk, she wrote out a note saying she would reschedule her meeting until the next afternoon, sent it flapping away towards the elevators with a few others and leaned back in her chair.  
  
Idly, she slipped open a desk drawer and took out a chocolate bar. As she unwrapped it, she nibbled and peered out the window around the wall of her cubicle. The skies were still dark and grey through the windows and it made her sigh. A night of storms ontop of nightmares would garner her no sleep unless she took a potion. Without a doubt, she would need to be home early tonight if she were going to take some and still be in early.  
  
As she stood again and gathered her notes, the journal, and various things into a bag, she peered over the wall at Gallagher. "What's Whitney been up to today, then?"  
  
In the middle of his afternoon snack, the man made a garbled noise through a biscuit. Swallowing roughly and pounding his chest, he shook his head. "Not much. Went out for lunch around one, hasn't really left his office otherwise. Why? Something the matter?"  
  
"No," she said. "No. Just, if you see him meeting with anyone, could you take note of who it is and tell me?"  
  
The man, who had been an Auror as long as her, looked perplexed, but agreed. Sahra Nigels always knew what she was doing, and he had relied on her as a partner more then once. If she wanted something as simple as keeping tabs on a man, he would do it, even if it was the Head of the Department. However, he expected he would need to do some investigating of his own... 


End file.
